


The Mansion Of A Love

by Pargoletta



Series: Caro-verse [9]
Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Cuddling and Snuggling, Discussion of Past Child Abuse, Dog(s), Eating Disorders, Flashback, Frottage, M/M, Nightmares, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-10
Updated: 2011-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargoletta/pseuds/Pargoletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being summarily bound together, Mercutio and Benvolio must learn how to be true consorts to each other. Here are five moments in that learning process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. While They Do Dream Things True

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Welcome to this story! Sometimes, you find yourself doing things you never thought you’d do. I never thought I would write a sexually explicit story involving Benvolio and Mercutio as the main characters, and yet, certain chapters in this one appeared. It’s weird how that is. Anyway, just a few notes. The five chapters of this story take place over the course of a spring, a summer, and into autumn, and there are time spans of several weeks between them. This is an expansion of the time period covered in Chapter 22 of _Caro_ , for anyone following along at home.
> 
> Benvolio’s attitude towards marriage in this story may seem surprising from a modern perspective. Though we might argue with him, he does not consider his relationship with Mercutio to be a marriage. He is a product of his time, and in his world, marriage is a religious sacrament between a man and a woman, and he cannot conceive of any other definition.
> 
> Verona’s Sunday market is somewhat strange. The blame for that goes to Zeffirelli. Canonically, the opening scene of _Romeo and Juliet_ takes place on a Sunday (Capulet mentions the evening of the next day as being Monday, and the audience does the math from there). Zeffirelli’s opening scene is set at a market. Therefore, for whatever reason, Caro-verse Verona has a market on Sunday.
> 
> Enjoy, and I’ll be back at the end.

**1\. While They Do Dream Things True**

* * *

The first full day that Benvolio spent living at the palace passed as if in a dream. Benvolio had heard that phrase often enough as a boy, and had assumed that it implied a situation of ecstatic happiness. But today he had gained a new understanding of those words. The day had indeed resembled a dream, but not a blissful fantasy. Instead, it had resembled the kind of dream where nothing seemed quite real, and even everyday activities seemed strange and foreign.

Benvolio and Mercutio had been left alone for much of the morning, apart from a brief visit from Valentine. They had not spoken much, but had opened Benvolio’s trunks. Now some of Benvolio’s things decorated Mercutio’s bedchamber, looking raw and unfamiliar in their new setting. Near midday, servants arrived to put Benvolio’s clothes away, and Mercutio was called to lessons. A page introduced Benvolio to the Prince’s secretary, to whom Benvolio was to be apprenticed. The secretary, an old man with kind eyes, showed Benvolio around his office, but made no move to teach him anything.

“There will be time enough for that,” he explained. “Better to allow you to accustom yourself to your new home.”

The surprise of being addressed as an equal instead of a child pierced the fog in Benvolio’s mind, and he managed a nod and a murmur of thanks. The secretary smiled at him, and Benvolio thought that he could learn to like this man.

The secretary summoned another page. “Show young Montague the house,” he commanded. Turning to Benvolio, he added, “We do not know where we will be summoned, or what we may be called on to record. Therefore, you should know this place as well as if you were a snail in its shell.” Benvolio suppressed a wish that he could crawl into a shell and hide as a snail did, then bowed and followed the page out of the office.

The tour was slow and thorough. The page allowed Benvolio to set his own pace, and they wandered through room upon room. At one point, they came upon the schoolroom where Mercutio and Valentine sat with their tutor. Mercutio flashed a quick smile when Benvolio peered inside, and a shower of warmth flooded through Benvolio. No matter how strange or disruptive his presence in the palace might be, one person at least was glad of it.

He wondered briefly if this was how a new bride felt upon delivery to her husband’s home after the wedding festivities, though he was no bride and there had been no marriage. Then he wondered what he was to Mercutio now. They were certainly still friends; even their clumsy dalliance just before dawn had not damaged that. The word “lovers” was not inaccurate, but did not quite seem to describe the change that had taken place when he and Mercutio had gone on their knees and sworn oaths to their Prince and their houses the night before.

Well, there was no sense in worrying overmuch. There did not appear to be any call to describe Mercutio just now. Benvolio indulged himself with one last glance into the schoolroom and then followed the page to the next wing of the palace.

* * *

It was at supper that the reality of Benvolio’s new situation truly began to sink in. Supper at the palace was an informal occasion for the royal family alone. The Prince presided over a table of small, elegant dishes from which family members received modest portions. Paris sat at the Prince’s right hand, along with his new bride Helena, who looked almost as nervous as Benvolio felt. Benvolio sat between Mercutio and Valentine, and Valentine’s dog Bembo sat politely nearby.

“He will beg thee for scraps because thou art new to this table,” Valentine said, “but he is not to have any until the meal is over.” Sure enough, Bembo did emit a hopeful whine upon seeing new faces at the table, but a firm “No,” from his young master hushed him.

Supper passed peaceably enough. Benvolio had had little appetite for the feast that had greeted his arrival, and now found that he was well able to appreciate the skill of the royal cooks. The Prince asked Mercutio and Valentine about their schoolwork, and Paris attempted to make light conversation about the daily business of Verona, but the atmosphere at the table remained subdued for the duration of the meal. Mercutio picked at his food, though a stern glance from the Prince caused him to eat nearly half of what was before him.

Benvolio found himself thinking back to suppers in his old home. Uncle Tiberio would sit at the head of the table with Aunt Susanna at his side. He would laugh and share tales of the day as Romeo and Benvolio ate. It struck Benvolio that those pleasant suppers were gone forever. Romeo and Juliet had a household of their own, and Benvolio had been given away; Uncle Tiberio and Aunt Susanna would not call him home that night, or ever again. He gave a long, shuddery sigh, but was drawn from his reverie by a snuffle from Bembo, who had approached the table to investigate the possibility of a treat.

“Bembo, stay,” Valentine said, then turned to Benvolio. “My apologies. I believe that thou hast found yet another friend here.”

Benvolio managed a smile at that, and turned his attention back to his supper.

* * *

When supper was finished, the Prince assembled the young people of his household in the chapel for a brief blessing before sending them away to bed. In the corridor, Mercutio and Benvolio bade the others a good night and entered their shared bedchamber. Benvolio’s clothes and trunks had been put away, and the space was tidy and welcoming.

Mercutio retreated immediately to the balcony, where he flung the curtains open and raised his face to the heavens. “Come, see the stars,” he said. “See how they shine in their nightly dance. My tutor tells me that there is music in the spheres above; dost thou think that the stars dance to those celestial melodies? Great Jove himself is pleased to see their measures, I think. Would that we could visit them and join in their bouts, spend our nights dancing among such company.”

Benvolio approached, but did not touch Mercutio. Instead, he turned his own gaze to the sky. The night was clear, and a smattering of stars sparkled against the deepening darkness. Benvolio imagined Mercutio dancing, wearing a crown of those tiny, brilliant lights, and smiled, though his heart stirred uneasily, for he could not quite see how he would fit into such a picture.

“They take their strength from the moon,” Mercutio went on. “The vigor that they receive from Dian’s chariot permits them to spend all the night in their revels. They drain her to the last drop, but still she replenishes herself. And so the stars need never sleep. Their dance fills the night with joy, and it is only we mortals who have not yet learned to partake of it.” His voice cracked, and he drew in a breath that was almost a sob.

“Then let the stars have their joy,” Benvolio said softly, “and we poor mortals will take peace and rest from the night in its stead.”

Mercutio turned to look at him, his eyes wide in the gloom. “Wilt thou not dance?”

Benvolio shook his head. “Nay. The dancing tonight is for the stars alone.” He took Mercutio’s hand and tugged gently. “Come into thy chamber and don thy nightclothes. Thou needst not fear the night.”

Mercutio sighed. He gave one last, longing glance to the heavens, and then followed Benvolio inside. Benvolio turned his back and began to unlace his doublet. He pulled it off and laid it carefully over a chair, then stepped out of his shoes.

“Art thou unhappy?” Mercutio asked. “Have I given thee offense? I would never intend such cruelty, and I would make amends if I have sinned against such a sweet friend as thou hast been to me.”

Benvolio’s breast ached for a moment, but he smiled. He took both of Mercutio’s hands in his and kissed them. “Thou hast given no offense, _caro_ ,” he said. “Thou hast given me naught save thy kindness, thy welcome, and thy heart.”

“But thou dost desire me no longer.”

Benvolio closed his eyes and shivered as the temptations of the pleasures of Mercutio’s embrace warred with the memory of the shock and tears that had followed the act. He opened his eyes again. “I desire thee more than thou canst possibly know. My desire burns as the sun and tears at my very bones with a force that steals my breath away. But I desire thy love and thy trust as well. I will not have thee with fear, _caro_ , and I will rather wait until such time as I may have thee with joy.”

The smile that Mercutio gave for a reply seemed a delicious reward. Benvolio kissed his hands again and released him. Mercutio went to a clothes chest, found his nightgown, and vanished into a small side chamber. Benvolio quickly changed into his own nightgown and slid into the bed. After a few moments, Mercutio joined him.

“It is a curious thing,” he said, “when a man will not take what is given to him by princely decree.”

Benvolio smiled. “The Prince has given possibility only, and that I have taken gladly. The rest is not within his power to bestow, so I will wait until that gift is given freely and with glad heart. Already I have more than I dared to dream of.”

Mercutio wriggled a little closer. “Then take from my lips a token in earnest of that which thou wilt yet refuse.”

Slowly, Benvolio pressed his lips to Mercutio’s. There was soft warmth, a brief click of teeth, and then yielding invitation. Benvolio was careful not to overstay his welcome, but retreated in good time, stroking his hand down the side of Mercutio’s face. A smile twitched beneath his thumb, and he counted himself well pleased. “Good night, _caro_ ,” he murmured.

“Good night, sweet friend.” Mercutio slipped his hand into Benvolio’s, and the two youths drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Mercutio woke in the depths of the night with a gasp and a shudder that pulled Benvolio from his dreams as well. By the time Benvolio had collected enough of his sleep-blurred wits to realize what had woken him, Mercutio was curled tightly on his side of the bed, shivering and crying.

For a moment, Benvolio nearly let out his own wail of despair at the thought that he would never again have a night of peaceful, unbroken sleep. But then he considered that it would be far worse to be stricken with the actual nightmares. After a moment’s hesitation, he moved a little closer to Mercutio, close enough to feel the warmth of his body, but not quite touching.

“ _Caro_ , _caro_ , why dost thou weep?” he murmured. “What dream has Mab brought to thee tonight?”

“There was pain . . .” Mercutio gasped. “It shot through me as a quarrel from a crossbow . . .” His voice trailed off, and he said nothing more about the pain of his dream.

He seemed to be wakeful enough to know Benvolio, and would likely not strike blindly at a touch. Slowly, Benvolio placed his hand on Mercutio’s shoulder. When no struggle or blow resulted, he moved closer so that his body curled around Mercutio’s, providing warmth and support, but no threat. He stroked Mercutio’s hair and made soothing noises in his throat. After a few moments, Mercutio’s sobs quieted, and his shivering began to ease.

“Did I not tell thee that thou needst fear the night no longer?” Benvolio said. “Thou art no longer alone. When thou dost wake in the night, I will be at thy side, and then thou wilt know that thou hast a sweet friend to cherish thee and keep thee from harm.”

“I cannot see,” Mercutio replied. “I woke, and I knew not where I was, nor what was real.”

“I am real, _caro_. Thou mayst trust in that, at least. Take thy comfort from thy friend, and sleep again, for I shall let nothing evil befall thee.”

Mercutio nodded, and pressed himself more firmly against Benvolio. Benvolio allowed his embrace to remain loose and gentle, and continued to stroke Mercutio’s hair. An old lullaby of his childhood emerged from the darker recesses of his memory, a soothing rhyme that Romeo’s nurse had sung to him in the terrible weeks following his parents’ death. He began to sing it now, softly and with more air than melody.

As Benvolio sang, Mercutio’s tremors finally stilled. His body relaxed, and his breathing grew deep and regular. After a while, Benvolio stopped singing and simply watched Mercutio sleeping calmly. It struck him that he had been instrumental in bringing about this state, likely far sooner than if Mercutio had been left to soothe himself back to sleep, and he smiled at the thought.

He lay down behind Mercutio and pulled the covers higher over both of them. The night seemed different now; there was a bond between them that had not been there before, even after their morning encounter. Just before he returned to sleep, Benvolio entertained two thoughts. The first was an idea for easing Mercutio’s night-time fear, and the second was the realization of what Mercutio truly was to him.

* * *

The next morning was Sunday, and there was no secretarial work to be done. Benvolio accompanied the royal family to Mass at Saint Peter’s church, where he was stung, but not surprised, when Uncle Tiberio and Aunt Susanna refused to meet his eye. He was glad to see that Romeo had no such quibbles, though, for Romeo caught his glance several times during the homily, and Juliet favored him with a small wave of her hand.

After Mass had finished, Benvolio greeted his cousin and his wife, then left Mercutio to entertain them, for he had some business of his own. One of Verona’s peculiarities was its Sunday market, at which one could purchase small crafts as well as food. There was one vendor in particular that Benvolio had in mind, and he was pleased to see that the man had set up his stall that day. He made his purchase quickly, then returned to his friends.

That night, before Mercutio prepared for sleep, Benvolio brought out the little package.

“I know not if this is proper,” he said, “but I felt it fitting. I took something from thee yesterday before dawn, and I have not paid that debt. Perhaps the custom of the morning gift should not be heeded where there has been no marriage, but still I would bestow this token upon my dearest consort.”

Mercutio accepted the gift and pulled the wrapping away with a child’s eagerness to reveal a bracket of alabaster carved so thin that it was translucent. In the bracket was a thick candle. “It is lovely,” Mercutio said.

“Thou didst tell me that thou art stricken with fear when thou dost wake at night and canst not see,” Benvolio explained. “This will give thee just light enough to see that thou art safe in thy bed, where the terrors of thy dreams cannot reach thee.”

“How can I thank thee for such kindness?” Mercutio said with a smile. “Thou art ever kind to me.” He ran a gentle finger down the center of Benvolio’s face, and then called a servant to hang the bracket and light the candle.

Night fell swiftly, but the darkness in the bedchamber was no longer absolute. The glow of the candle behind its alabaster shield lightened the gloom, but was not bright enough to prevent sleep. Benvolio drifted off with Mercutio’s fingers laced through his own, dreaming of tomorrow and the next day, taking his place in the world with his consort by his side.


	2. Make Blessed My Rude Hand

**2\. Make Blessed My Rude Hand**

* * *

“And then,” Romeo said, perhaps a little too loudly, “and then --“ He stopped talking for a moment and looked puzzled. “Marry, I am certain that I was about to pronounce words of great import.”

Benvolio laughed, and Mercutio seized the jug of wine that stood on the table. “Come, shall I refresh thy cup?” he asked. “Perhaps thou wilt find thy truth in these dregs.”

“Thou’rt too kind,” Romeo said, but held out his cup nevertheless. Mercutio filled it again, and then offered the jug to Benvolio. Benvolio politely accepted a splash, though his cup was not yet empty.

Taking Romeo to the tavern that evening had been Mercutio’s idea. It appeared that Juliet had begun to grow restless in the advancing summer heat as her body swelled with pregnancy. Romeo had complained once too often that her nocturnal tossing had kept him from sleep, and it had not taken Mercutio long to come up with a solution. The three of them would go to a tavern and ply Romeo with enough wine that he would sleep soundly even if a horde of Turkish janissaries charged through Verona. Everyone had approved of this idea, including Juliet, who had confided to Benvolio that she would take advantage of the opportunity to sprawl across the large bed alone.

“A health!” Romeo cried. “The health of my dearest Juliet.”

“Ay,” Benvolio said, “and the child that grows within her.”

Three cups clicked together. The wine was heady and complex, and Benvolio settled down contentedly with his drink.

Mercutio grinned at Romeo. “Thou hast not yet completed thy tale.”

“Ay. What was it I spoke of?”

“Thy lady Juliet, of course,” Mercutio said. “What other topic can cause thee to make thy tale so long?” He underscored the question with a particularly rude hand gesture.

Romeo laughed, and then choked on his wine so that Benvolio had to slap him on the back. “I recall it now,” he said through spluttering coughs. “I wished to tell thee how marvelous clever my wife has proved. The midwife has warned that I may not handle Juliet near as much as I would desire, for the sake of the babe. But my lady is a sly and a cunning maid --“

“Maid no more,” Mercutio snickered, but Benvolio put a hand on his arm to quiet him.

“-- and she hath found ways to handle me, to satisfy the sting with mine own sword.” Romeo turned unfocused eyes on Benvolio. “Thou hast not known bliss, for thou knowest not the touch of a lady’s skilled hand upon thy --“ A broad smile spread over Romeo’s face. “I know not how she came upon this trick, but I thank God that she has.”

Benvolio was acquainted with Juliet’s nurse, and he suspected that he knew perfectly well where she had first heard tell of the skills she now employed to stir Romeo’s ardor. But he held his tongue and smiled at his cousin instead. After a moment, Romeo blinked, and looked mildly troubled.

“I hope that I have not offended,” he said. “I know full well wherefore thou knowest no lady’s hand . . .” He shot a worried glance in Mercutio’s direction, but Mercutio simply shrugged and returned a parody of the same expression.

Benvolio let Romeo stew for a few moments, then decided to show mercy. “Thou hast given no offense, gentle coz,” he said. “It is true that I know not the bliss of a lady’s hand, but I trust it is equaled by the bliss that I do know.” He laid his hand on Mercutio’s shoulder, as innocently as one friend might touch another in a tavern over wine, but added the smallest of caresses, such that only Mercutio and Romeo knew of it.

Romeo relaxed back into his haze of tipsy satisfaction. Mercutio rummaged in his pouch and came up with coin to pay for the wine they had consumed. “I wager thou art now well prepared to receive the queen that is to come,” he said, “though who will know if that queen is Mab or Juliet?”

He and Benvolio helped Romeo to his feet and escorted him home.

* * *

Romeo was not the only one whose mood had been cheered by the evening. After Mercutio had changed into his nightgown, he sat on the end of the bed and watched as Benvolio changed his own clothes, folding his daytime garments neatly and placing them atop a clothes chest. When he finished, Benvolio turned around to find Mercutio smiling. “It pleases me to watch thee move,” Mercutio said softly.

Benvolio drew in an anticipatory breath and hurried to the door to tell the night valet that his duties were done. Then he returned to stand before Mercutio. Mercutio held out his arms, and Benvolio embraced him. He threaded his fingers through Mercutio’s fine blond hair, and Mercutio’s hands came up to roam over Benvolio’s shoulder blades. At Benvolio’s gentle tug, Mercutio willingly tilted his head back to receive first a gentle kiss, then one more ardent.

For a while, the world dwindled to a blur of mouth and skin, hands and linen. Benvolio clasped Mercutio close, and Mercutio grasped fistfuls of Benvolio’s nightgown. In the past few nights, it seemed as if the weeks of uncertainty that had hung between them since Benvolio’s arrival had faded. A memory of the scent of honeysuckle floated through Benvolio’s mind, and a measure of his doubt over Mercutio’s well-being vanished.

When Mercutio pushed him away a few minutes later, his eyes were calm, and a contented smile played about his lips. “It is plenty,” he murmured. “More such sweetness would become foul in my mouth and change to the bitterest gall.” Then his expression darkened. “But I fear that thou hast not had the satisfaction that is thy right and due.”

“Thy smile is satisfaction enough tonight,” Benvolio assured him. “As for the appetites of the body, well, I have known to take them in hand ever since I discovered that my prick had another use. I would not choke a suckling babe with meat.”

“So thou wilt choke the meat until thou mayst be suckled?”

Benvolio laughed out loud at that, grabbed a pillow, and lobbed it at Mercutio’s head. Mercutio caught the pillow and dived beneath the covers. Benvolio paused only to extinguish all of the candles except the night candle before joining him.

* * *

Throughout the next day, thoughts of the conversation with Romeo rose up whenever Benvolio had a spare moment. While it was true that Benvolio did not desire a woman’s touch, he did envy the easy familiarity that Romeo had achieved with Juliet, even after knowing her but a few short weeks. His friendship with Mercutio remained strong, and he relished that steady affection that had been his for as long as he could remember, but there was still a barrier between them once the darkness fell. Though he knew that beating down that wall in a single stroke would shatter Mercutio, Benvolio wondered if there might not be a few chinks that he might explore. Just before he was called to supper, he remembered something that Romeo had said, and his heart lightened.

By chance, Mercutio’s tutor had assigned him to read _Orlando Furioso_. The poem had enchanted him, though he had little patience for long stretches of reading alone, and he longed to share it. After supper, when the members of the Prince’s household had been released to their own leisures, Mercutio brought the book to the shared bedchamber.

Though he loved to hear and tell stories, Mercutio found it difficult to sit still long enough to read them in books. His tutors had thought him dull and thick of head until Benvolio had discovered that Mercutio was perfectly able to concentrate on a book if he had company in the room while he read. For his part, Mercutio declared that he enjoyed books better if they were read aloud. Benvolio’s tutor had not thought much of the modern style of literature, and Benvolio had never read Orlando Furioso. So they had begun to read it together in the evenings before sleep, curled up against each other on the bed, each taking a turn to read a few verses aloud.

Mercutio had a fine voice and an active sense of drama, and Benvolio was sorry when they had finished the assigned cantos. But he pushed that from his mind as Mercutio put a ribbon in the book to mark their place and rose to his knees to set the book on the shelf above the bed. When he turned back, Benvolio caught his hand. “I would beg a boon of thee tonight, _caro_ ,” he said.

Mercutio glanced down at Benvolio’s hand clasping his, and his expression grew serious. “What boon wouldst thou have?”

“I wish --“ Benvolio’s mouth suddenly went dry, and he swallowed and worked his jaw for a moment before he could continue. “I wish to see thee,” he said. “I would look upon the form of my love and pay reverence with my unworthy hand.”

Mercutio drew back in surprise for a moment, but Benvolio had judged his mood well that evening, and he did not tremble or refuse the request out of hand. “I am no saint, pure and incorruptible of body,” he said. “It is merely flesh and bone, hardly worthy of reverence.”

“It is thy living flesh,” Benvolio countered, “and that is more precious to me than the desiccated corpse of Saint Zeno. But if thou wouldst refuse me, I promise that I shall not touch thee this night against thy will.”

“I have done nothing to merit a friend as true as thou,” Mercutio said. “Thou hast already shown me more forbearance than I would have dreamed of, and I willingly grant thy boon.” He closed his eyes and spread his arms a little, offering himself to Benvolio.

Slowly and with gentle reverence, Benvolio took the nightgown off of him. The cool touch of air upon his naked skin seemed to startle Mercutio, for he drew his limbs close and sat for a moment huddled in upon himself. But then, with great deliberation, he unfolded himself and lay down upon his back, leaving his body open and exposed to his sweet friend’s gaze.

Benvolio sat still for a moment, drinking in the sight. Mercutio was all long lines and sharp angles, save that his face was made of gentle curves. He returned Benvolio’s gaze with bright blue eyes, and his expression was calm, though the rest of his body seemed to sing with restrained tension. The scattered golden curls on his chest glinted in the candlelight, but were not enough to hide the shadows of ribs. His belly was a small valley surrounded by the ridges of his ribcage and hipbones, and it fluttered a little as he breathed. At the juncture of his long, thin legs, his prick lay nestled in its bed of golden hair. He was too thin for comfort, and the lines of his face were too soft for men to deem him handsome, but he appeared to Benvolio’s eyes as a creature impossibly fair.

Benvolio took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, the better to maintain control over himself, though his body burned with thrill and desire. He began to remove his own nightgown, but Mercutio flinched away. Though weakened, the barrier between them still stood. Well, there would be time enough to erode it; Benvolio’s place in this bed was permanent. So he left his nightgown on, only loosening it a little at the neck, and lay down at Mercutio’s side.

“Art thou pleased?” Mercutio asked. “It is not the first time that thou hast beheld me thus.”

“I knew not how to savor such a treasure then,” Benvolio said. “Let my eyes now be opened to the beauty that lies before them.”

“Beauty? I have committed the foulest of sins, hundreds of times over. What beauty I once possessed is long rotted away.”

Benvolio stroked Mercutio’s hair, a gesture that could almost always calm him. “Thou wast subject to force and compulsion, and thou didst not act willfully. There was sin in that bed, but it was not thy sin. Thy goodness and thy beauty remain intact.”

Benvolio traced his fingers over Mercutio’s face, and Mercutio’s worried frown melted beneath his hand. A gentle caress led him to the hollow of Mercutio’s neck, where a pulse thrummed just beneath the skin. He ran his palms along Mercutio’s arms, pausing to clasp his hands and bestow a light kiss on the fingers before he settled his hand on Mercutio’s chest. There, he reveled in the warmth and movement of life, feeling the throb of a heartbeat and the rise and fall of breath. But only a small gesture brought something else under his palm. He could feel hard bone too close to the surface, and in a starveling depression between two ribs, just to the left of Mercutio’s breastbone, there was the scar, a raised white line as long as the tip joint of Benvolio’s thumb.

“On that day, everything changed,” Mercutio said quietly. “I could no longer force myself to forget.”

“Thy life was given back to thee, _caro_.”

“They told me that it was thy action that swayed the balance.”

Benvolio moved his hand back over Mercutio’s heart. “It was the day that my love for thee overcame my cowardice.”

His hand skimmed down over Mercutio’s belly, which elicited a sudden laugh. It seemed that Benvolio had discovered a ticklish spot, and a grin spread over his face with the joy of this discovery. He caressed the point of a hipbone with his thumb, then sat up and began to stroke down the outside of Mercutio’s thigh.

As he did so, he felt a light pressure against his back. Mercutio smiled at Benvolio and gently ran a finger up and down along the length of his spine. “May I not also partake of the evening’s diversions?” he asked.

Benvolio opened his mouth to reply, but could only gasp as a shiver of delight radiated through his body. Mercutio’s smile grew wider.

Quickly, Benvolio swept his hand down over Mercutio’s calf to his feet, where he knew that almost everyone was ticklish. Sure enough, a few light swipes of his fingers caused Mercutio’s toes to curl. Benvolio drew his hand back up over Mercutio’s other leg, then rested it in the hollow of his hip.

Mercutio’s smile faded, and tension crept back into his body. He began to raise his knee, as if to shield himself from Benvolio, then stopped. Benvolio stilled his hand, but did not remove it immediately.

“Only with thy leave, _caro_ ,” he murmured.

“It is thine. It was given to thee along with the rest of my body.”

Benvolio shook his head. “I have no such claims over thee, Mercutio, for there was no holy union. Thy sovereignty over thy body is inviolate. I am a guest, and I will not go where I am unwelcome.”

Mercutio said nothing, but after a long moment, he lowered his knee. Still, Benvolio did not move his hand.

“I will not hurt thee,” he said. “It is a part of thee as much as any other part, and I would give it the same reverence, no more and no less.”

There was another pause. “Ay,” Mercutio said, his voice no more than a whisper. “Thou mayst.”

Benvolio nodded his thanks, and covered Mercutio’s prick with his hand. It was hot to his touch, and slightly damp with sweat. Benvolio stroked and handled it gently, so as to convey his appreciation, but nothing more. Nevertheless, it pulsed and even moved a little beneath his hand. Mercutio let out a small, choked gasp, and Benvolio suspected that Mercutio might have become hard if he were not so nervous. He allowed himself to be flattered and slightly relieved, even if his intentions that evening did not include further arousal. With a final caress, he moved his hand up Mercutio’s body to rest once more over his heart.

“My deepest thanks to thee, _caro_ ,” he said. “Thou must know the magnitude of the privilege that thou hast bestowed upon me tonight, for which I am honored and grateful.”

Mercutio gave another small smile. “Didst thou find the pleasure that thou didst seek?”

Benvolio returned the smile and nodded. “Ay. I am well pleased.”

Mercutio relaxed a little bit upon hearing that. “Perhaps, soon, I shall be able to give thee more.”

“Whatever thou canst give, I will accept gladly,” Benvolio assured him. “But thou hast given plenty for tonight.” He picked up Mercutio’s nightgown and handed it to him. Mercutio sat up to pull the garment over his head, then lay down again and held out his arms.

Benvolio wasted no time in accepting the invitation, and pressed his whole body along Mercutio’s in an embrace and kissed him thoroughly before releasing him. “Good night, caro Mercutio,” he said, and snuffed the candle near the bed. “May thy rest be pleasant and thy dreams sweet.”


	3. So Smile The Heavens

**3\. So Smile The Heavens**

* * *

Mercutio’s eyes snapped open as his body went rigid. A sharp gasp turned into a short, wailing cry, and his hands moved as if of their own accord to clutch at Benvolio’s shoulders.

The sight of Mercutio’s face, so open and shocked, seemed to make Benvolio’s blood burn. He wrapped Mercutio’s legs more firmly around his waist, and thrust hard against him, groaning as his prick slid across Mercutio’s, both youths as hard as iron. Mercutio was the one to find release first, crying out again as his hips shuddered, and Benvolio felt damp warmth spurt between their bodies. He thrust twice more, then spent himself as well.

A few moments later, when his sight cleared, Benvolio wiped sweat from his brow. Mercutio lay quietly beneath him, wearing nothing but a solemn expression, seemingly lost in thought. Benvolio ran his hand down the side of Mercutio’s face, then kissed him lazily. Mercutio’s hands settled on Benvolio’s hips with a caress that sent one more unexpected spurt of pleasure through him. He gasped, then laughed.

“Stop there,” he chuckled. “Thou are the cruelest angel of Death, who would condemn me to an eternity with no hope of resurrection.”

Mercutio smiled at that. “Were I to blow the trumpet, thinkst thou that the dead would rise again?”

“For thee, cruel angel . . .” Benvolio let his words trail away as he slid off of Mercutio. He lay beside his lover for a moment, floating on a cloud of sensation spiced with the memory of Mercutio’s face as he came and the caress and jesting afterwards that had proved that the pleasure had been mutual.

But Benvolio did not dwell overlong. It was his turn to address the cooling, sticky remnants of that pleasure, and he slowly sat up to pull a clean cloth from the chest of them that now sat on the shelf above the bed. He cleaned first Mercutio and then himself with swift, gentle strokes, and then turned away to deposit the cloth in a jar by the side of the bed. When he turned back, Mercutio had donned his nightgown and pulled the covers over himself. Benvolio did not bother with his own nightgown; in the height of summer, the bed was warm enough without it, and he did not wish to abandon the memory of his body gliding against Mercutio’s. He reached out to caress his lover’s hair once more, and then sleep claimed him.

* * *

The secretary greeted Benvolio with a knowing look when Benvolio appeared in his office in the morning. “There is a spark in your eye, young Montague,” the secretary said. “Shall I trust that your rest was pleasant?”

Benvolio’s cheeks grew warm, but he carefully maintained a straight face. “Ay,” he said. “My sleep was sound and filled with only pleasant dreams. Now, what would you have me do this day?”

As it turned out, Benvolio’s tasks involved supervising payments to a number of petty merchants in the city. This errand involved taking a ledger book, a cashier and several members of the royal guard to the merchants on the list and seeing that they received their money from the packets that the cashier carried on his person. The secretary felt himself too old to be riding around Verona for so long in the hot July sunlight, but Benvolio enjoyed the task. Not only did it allow him to bask in the sunshine and exchange pleasantries with the merchants, but he also derived a tiny amount of cruel satisfaction whenever he led his entourage past one of the Capulet boys on the street.

Today, he came upon Tybalt just after he had made the monthly payment to the fishmonger. When Tybalt spied Benvolio, he folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head back so that he could look down his nose. “Good den,” he said, smiling as his voice dripped scorn.

“Good den, Tybalt.” Though Benvolio knew that Tybalt was forbidden to harm him under the conditions of truce, he was still glad of the armed escort at his side. He flashed a smile in Tybalt’s direction and moved to mount his horse. Before he could do so, Tybalt advanced toward him.

“Shall I see thee tonight, Benvolio Montague?” Tybalt asked. “Or shall I see the lapdog of the Prince, consorting with his moonstruck kinsman?”

The guards moved in on Tybalt, but Benvolio gestured for them to remain calm. “I know not whereof thou speakest, Tybalt,” he said. “But I assure thee that I have no desire to associate with thee, tonight or any other night.”

Tybalt’s sneer faded and turned into a glare. “I know what thou art, Benvolio. Have a care that thou dost not give me cause to regret my actions.”

“I have done thee no harm. An thou dost extend the same courtesy to me, then there shall be no action to occasion regret.” Benvolio swung up into the saddle before Tybalt could reply, gave a courteous nod, and led his escort away to the next merchant.

* * *

They returned to the palace just as the afternoon was beginning to cool. The secretary thanked Benvolio and released him from duty for the evening. Benvolio immediately went to the gardens, where he could hear barking and laughter.

Just as he entered the garden, a stick landed at his feet. A moment later, Bembo came charging to retrieve it. Upon seeing Benvolio, Bembo whined around the stick in his mouth. Benvolio smiled, and took the stick from Bembo. “Ah, Bembo, thou art a good dog,” he said, petting and scratching behind Bembo’s ears. Bembo wagged his tail and wriggled as Mercutio approached, followed by Valentine and his friend Proteus. Valentine embraced Benvolio quickly, then took the stick.

“It is good to see thee home,” he said. “We have not much more time for play. Bembo, fetch!” He threw the stick to the other end of the garden. Bembo dashed after it, and Valentine and Proteus followed, laughing.

Benvolio smiled and caught Mercutio around the waist, and was rewarded with a kiss. “Why have they so little time?” he asked. “The sun doth still light the sky.”

“We must make ready,” Mercutio said, his eyes shining. “Capulet’s man was here ere thou didst return, and we are to attend his summer feast again. Proteus has brought masks for himself and Valentine, but Uncle has decreed that I must attend with open face this year.”

Of course. Capulet’s feast. So much had happened since Benvolio had arranged the fateful masking party for Romeo that it scarcely seemed that a full year had passed. “I trust that thou wilt enjoy the entertainment,” he said, knowing well how Mercutio loved to dance. “But thou must promise to tell me the full tale of the evening.”

“I shall do no such thing,” Mercutio said, pushing out of Benvolio’s embrace. He seized Benvolio’s hand and grinned. “Thou art named among the guests as well. Come, dress thyself, and then thou canst make thy own tale at the feast.”

Benvolio could only stare, astonished. Was that the reason that Tybalt had spoken so disdainfully about the prospect of seeing Benvolio again in the evening? Mercutio laughed at his open mouth and pulled him inside to begin their preparations.

* * *

In the shock of the aftermath of the Montague boys’ adventure the year before, Benvolio had forgotten how splendid the ball itself had been. Signior Capulet was a generous host who spared no expense to hire the most skilled musicians, purchase expensive treats for the table, and weave many garlands of flowers that lent a rich perfume to the air. As a child, Benvolio had been under the vague impression that this was sinful in some way that he would understand when he was older. Now, with the separation of the feud behind him, he realized just how much Signior Capulet enjoyed his feast. For all the music, food, decoration, and dancing, it was the obvious pleasure of the host that gave the gathering its spark.

Benvolio was pleasantly surprised to find himself in demand as a dance partner, and he accepted most requests eagerly, only refusing a few dances where he did not feel confident in his performance. But he did not feel himself deprived at those times, for he could refresh his body with a glass of wine and a tidbit and delight his heart with watching Mercutio dance. During one galliard, he made pleasant conversation with Helena, speaking of the various confused paths they had navigated the year before in their separate attempts to parse the loves that had been growing in their hearts. It was not the first time that they had broached the topic with each other, but each time they did, Benvolio came away feeling that their friendship had grown that much firmer.

The galliard ended, and the pink-cheeked dancers melted laughing back into the crowd. Benvolio was about to go in search of Mercutio when Lady Capulet called for a volta. A delighted, scandalized murmur went through the crowd, and many of the older ladies and gentlemen made their way to the refreshment tables. Out of the corner of his eye, Benvolio spotted Juliet looking mildly disappointed; in her seventh month of pregnancy, she could not be lifted and spun without risk to the babe. But Romeo whispered something in her ear, and she smiled again.

His head held high, Tybalt led Lady Capulet out onto the floor to open the dance. They executed the figures with wit and skill, appearing more as sister and brother than as aunt and nephew. As the tune came around again, more couples joined them. Mercutio hurried onto the floor with a little girl who was barely more than a child, her eyes shining with the excitement of what must have been her first grown-up ball and her handsome, graceful partner. Benvolio smiled at her joy, then felt light fingers on his arm. Juliet’s cousin Rosaline stood before him, her eyes twinkling.

“Wouldst thou dance?” Benvolio asked.

Rosaline smiled. “It would be a pleasure.” She took his offered hand, and they glided out onto the floor. Rosaline was slender and graceful, with large eyes, soft lips, and delicately curved brows, and Benvolio could see at once why Romeo had loved her. But he also saw a sly intelligence in her eyes, and noted the smile that tugged at her lips. “What dost thou know, lady?” he asked with a laugh, just before he lifted her off her feet. “Have I the remains of some morsel caught between my teeth?”

She laughed as he spun her and set her on the ground. “Nay, thy teeth are as clean as my lady aunt’s pearls,” she said. “But I feel that I know thee, Benvolio.”

“Oh?” He lifted her again. “How so?”

“Thou art a lively and a gallant dancer,” she said, “but do I guess aright that thou wouldst rather dance with another?” She flicked her glance across the room to Mercutio, who twirled his child partner so as to make her giggle.

Startled at the beginning of another lift, Benvolio nearly dropped Rosaline, but recovered himself in time. “We shall dance later,” he murmured, “though the music will be softer then. Thou hast a discerning eye, lady. What of thy tongue?”

A blush spread over Rosaline’s face, and she glanced away for a moment. “I am to join a holy sisterhood at summer’s end,” she said. “And that is where my tongue shall stay.”

* * *

The Prince had given most of his household permission to decide for themselves when to leave the ball, though he had ordered that Valentine not stay to the very end. And indeed, the dancing was far from over when Mercutio waved to Benvolio from across the room, and Benvolio found Mercutio with his arm around his wavering brother. “Prithee, Mercutio, I would walk but one more bout,” Valentine murmured, even as he swayed.

“Too much of wine and dancing hast thou had already,” Mercutio said with a gentle laugh.

“Shall we escort thee home, Valentine?” Benvolio asked.

“I shall dance with thee along the way, if thou canst still stand,” Mercutio added. Mollified, Valentine agreed, and the three youths collected their pages and set out.

* * *

Mercutio kept his promise and danced a little with Valentine as they walked, twirling him through the doors of his bedchamber where Bembo waited to lick his young master’s face. Benvolio left orders for the servants to see Valentine safely to bed, and then drew Mercutio down the corridor into their bedchamber.

Mercutio had clearly not had his fill of dancing, for he seized Benvolio’s hands, and the two of them danced a strange step that was half a galliard and half a branle and took them all through the chamber. Though there was no music, Benvolio fitted his steps to Mercutio’s rhythm, and their dance progressed apace. With flourishing hands, the two youths circled each other, coming nearer to each other until Benvolio had but to extend his arm to catch Mercutio about the waist and draw him into an embrace. Mercutio did not object, but fitted himself against Benvolio and began to press tiny kisses over his face.

Delighted, Benvolio waited for an opportune moment and kissed Mercutio full on the lips. Mercutio laughed low in his throat, threaded his fingers through Benvolio’s hair, and continued the exchange. It was sport such as Benvolio dreamed of but rarely experienced, fearless, wanton and enthusiastic. Almost of their own accord, his hands sought out the edges of Mercutio’s doublet.

At the first touch, Mercutio pulled away, and Benvolio feared that he had gone too far. But Mercutio only hesitated for a moment before he began to undo his laces himself. He did not allow Benvolio to help, but indicated with sidelong glances that Benvolio should merely watch and take pleasure from the sight. And indeed, Benvolio grew hard as he watched, loosening his own garments to allow himself some air.

When Mercutio had stripped down to his hose, Benvolio could restrain himself no longer, and advanced to take Mercutio in his arms and kiss him once again. He pressed Mercutio down among the pillows, and for a few minutes they busied themselves with the entertaining prospect of removing their remaining garments while keeping their embrace intact. Upon accomplishing this task, Mercutio lay back, wrapped his legs around Benvolio, and began to run his fingers in tingling paths all over Benvolio’s chest and torso.

This was the part of their lovemaking that Benvolio enjoyed the most, the warmth, the pleasure of their bodies sliding over and under each other, the growing fire of excitement. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, Mercutio seemed as alive to possibility as Benvolio was, laughing and writhing as though the playful joy of the dance was still with him. Benvolio gave a whoop of surprised pleasure when Mercutio wriggled out from beneath him, tumbling him onto his back. He promptly straddled Benvolio’s hips and leaned down to trail kisses down Benvolio’s chest, following the same paths that his fingers had awakened only moments earlier.

By way of encouragement, Benvolio reached up to pluck gently at the hairs on Mercutio’s chest, which made Mercutio squirm. That motion sent waves of sensation through Benvolio’s groin, and he quickly grasped Mercutio’s rump to entice him to continue. His body and Mercutio’s both began to grow slick with sweat and fluid, but it was not enough. Benvolio’s words had deserted him in the heat of their play, and he could only ask for what he wanted by turning his gaze upwards, but Mercutio took his meaning, and climbed off of him just long enough to retrieve the jar of unguent from its perch above the bed.

He lay back down at Benvolio’s side, scooped up some of the sweet-smelling unguent, and began to smooth it over them, taking both their pricks in his hand. Following where he was led, Benvolio rolled Mercutio onto his back and settled atop him, finding the pace for his own thrusts from the rhythm of Mercutio’s hand, and Mercutio gasped.

To Benvolio’s astonishment, Mercutio’s expression of pleasure did not fade into his usual determined earnestness. Rather, he arched up on his elbows to kiss Benvolio, then lay back among the pillows. Slowly, a brilliant, delighted smile lit his face. When he saw it, Benvolio shivered as if the sun had burst out from behind a cloud to warm him, and he had to stop thrusting for a moment to appreciate the sight, for never before had Mercutio smiled at him at that point in their night work.

“Wherefore dost thou tarry?” Mercutio asked. “Wilt thou leave me thus unfinished?”

“And spoil the joy of this evening? Marry, no!” Benvolio resumed his pace, and soon Mercutio trembled beneath him, and then his own reward was upon him, stronger and more complete than any he had experienced in many weeks. When he recovered himself enough to look into Mercutio’s eyes, he saw nothing there save languid pleasure and deep satisfaction, and he knew that one of his wordless fears had just been laid to rest.

Even after Mercutio had cleaned them and contented weariness stole through Benvolio’s bones, he still fancied that he could hear the music of the ball echoing in his mind. It had taken time, but he and Mercutio had finally learned to dance.


	4. Let Lips Do What Hands Do

**4\. Let Lips Do What Hands Do**

* * *

There was a knock on the door to the secretary’s office, and Benvolio looked up from his accounts. The secretary shuffled in from his inner sanctum. “Enter,” he called.

The door opened, and one of the younger pages entered. “Captain Senzi bids me inform you that a rider draws near,” he said.

The secretary nodded. “I see. My thanks. Come with me, Montague. It appears that our painter has arrived.”

Benvolio laid down his papers and hurried to follow the secretary down the corridor. “Have we a painter?” he asked. “You spoke nothing of this to me.”

“Did I not? Forgive me. It has not been long planned, I assure you.” The secretary drew a letter from his doublet and handed it to Benvolio. “The Prince has decided to commission a new altarpiece for the chapel.”

“That I knew. Has he found a painter who will create it?”

“Perhaps. He has at least found one that he is willing to entertain. The man comes to us from Mantua.”

Privately, Benvolio wondered why the expense was necessary, as there was no shortage of skilled painters residing in Verona. However, the Mantuan painter had already made his journey, and it would be churlish to raise an objection now. So Benvolio held his tongue and arranged his face into a neutral, vaguely welcoming expression as he followed the secretary to the courtyard.

They emerged at the top of the long flight of steps just as a horse and rider clattered through one of the two arched entryways. The rider drew his horse to a halt near the fountain and dismounted. He led the horse to the foot of the steps and bowed deeply.

“I am Orazio Guarin, a painter from Mantua,” he said. “I bring letters of commendation from my lord Duke Gonzaga of Mantua and beg audience with Prince Escalus of Verona.”

Benvolio suppressed a wicked smile upon hearing that. Like most residents of the palace, he had heard tales of the Gonzaga court in Mantua. Though aging, the current Duke was rumored to be a boisterous lover, who had once seduced the daughter of a man who had plotted against him and then almost immediately cast her aside for the daughter of his jester. Benvolio could not imagine that a painter recommended by that court would paint a proper altarpiece, but he wondered if he might not be able to commission a rather more personal sketch or two before the man’s trial period was out.

Captain Senzi took the proffered letters from Guarin and climbed the steps to deliver them to the secretary. The secretary examined the seals, opened one of the letters, and skimmed it. He nodded to Captain Senzi, then addressed Guarin. “I shall convey your letters to His Lordship, and in the meanwhile, my associate will ensure that you and your horse receive rest and refreshment.”

He turned on his heel and retreated into the palace. Benvolio summoned a page to care for Guarin’s horse, and then showed Guarin to a guest chamber that had been prepared for him.

* * *

The Prince invited Guarin to take supper with the royal family that evening, and they spent much of the meal discussing the latest news from the Gonzaga court. This left the five young people free to converse among themselves. Paris had taken Helena hawking for the first time that day, and both of them told amusing tales of Helena’s initial encounters with the birds and their prey.

“The falcons are not nearly as affectionate as hunting dogs,” Helena said, “but to see them in flight! Oh, I felt as if my heart could soar along with my bird.”

“Perhaps the soaring was as much inspired by the teacher as by the bird,” Benvolio suggested.

Paris smiled, and Helena blushed. After a quick glance at the Prince and Guarin to ensure that they were distracted, Paris leaned over and kissed his bride right at the supper table. Mercutio laughed and made exaggerated kissing noises at them, while Valentine turned his head away in mock horror. Something caught his attention, and after a moment, his companions turned to see what it was. Guarin was studying Valentine’s face with an air of surprised thoughtfulness. Valentine gave an uncertain half-smile, and waved his fingers at Guarin. The painter nodded, and the strange spell was broken. Shrugging at the oddity, the five young people resumed their meal.

* * *

The next day, the Prince announced that he would test Guarin’s skills by commissioning a series of sketched portraits. “He has brought me samples of the sketches he has done for other religious works in Mantua,” the Prince explained, “but I wish to see how he captures the nuances of form and expression. And I would also have memories of my young kin against my old age. Paris and Lady Helena will sit first, and then Mercutio and Valentine will be summoned.”

“May Bembo be included in our portrait?” Valentine asked.

The Prince smiled. “Of course. Bembo has been with thee almost as long as thou hast dwelled here. Thou hast trained him to be a gentleman, and he is as one of our family.”

Valentine beamed, and hurried away to fetch the dog. Mercutio watched him go and grinned. “How it might have been had I begged Uncle for a pup,” he said to Benvolio. “But, alas, I preferred the cats on the street as my friends. They are fine playmates, but they will not sit for a portrait.”

Benvolio snickered. “And what of thyself? Thou hast many talents, but sitting still is not among them.”

“I shall do as Uncle requires,” Mercutio said. “Look for me at the end of the day.” With that, he turned to go to his lessons, and Benvolio went to his work.

Paris and Helena emerged from their sitting two hours later. Paris sent a page to fetch Mercutio and Valentine, then went to the secretary’s office to visit with Benvolio. “Guarin is skilled indeed,” he said. “After he had completed the sketch, he showed it to us, and his eye and hand are marvelous deft. The braids of Helena’s hair and the folds of her dress seemed real enough that I was tempted to put out my hand to them. Truly, I believe that he may well be a second Buonarroti.”

“Then perhaps I should begin to revise the household finances,” Benvolio replied. “Such skill will not come cheaply.”

Paris nodded. “I have no doubt that Uncle will be pleased.”

Just then, raised voices emanated from the portrait chamber, and then Bembo began to bark, a deep, rough sound very much unlike his normal light yaps of playful contentment. Benvolio and Paris hurried into the corridor just as Guarin burst out of the portrait chamber, ruffled and cursing.

“A pox on that dog!” he cried. “It is a Cerberus, a hound of Hell itself, of slavering jaw and wild eye. It would have torn me limb from limb had I not fled.”

“Bembo?” Paris asked. “He was bred for the hunt, but he was trained as a child’s pet. I know no gentler dog.” He and Benvolio ascertained that Guarin was not truly injured, and then entered the portrait chamber.

An easel stood just inside, bearing a half-completed sketch of Mercutio, Valentine, and Bembo. The subjects themselves sat across the room. Valentine knelt on the floor, shivering and holding Bembo, who nudged and licked his master’s face. Mercutio knelt beside Valentine, embracing both boy and dog. He rose to his feet when Benvolio and Paris entered, and his face was pale with some fright.

“I did not fight him,” he said to Paris. “And no matter what he may say, Bembo did not attack. He did bark and growl, but a dog that barks cannot bite.”

“I believe thee,” Paris said, looking bewildered at the strange scene before his eyes.

Benvolio crouched down and extended a hand to Valentine, but Bembo gave a brief growl of warning. The growl roused Valentine, and he petted the dog. “Bembo, hush. It is Benvolio and Paris, and they are our friends.”

“As the painter is not?” Benvolio asked.

Valentine shuddered and reached to clasp Mercutio’s hand. “He knows our father,” he choked out, “and he would convey us to Mantua, and deliver us back into Father’s hands. I beg thee, Paris, and thee, Benvolio, prithee, how may this be prevented?”

“He gazed upon Valentine at supper yesternight,” Mercutio explained. “His eye is as keen as any painter in Italy, and he saw the echo of Father’s face in Valentine’s. As we sat today, he asked us our names. When we made reply, he said that he was acquainted with Signior Giacomo Rinuccini in Mantua, and said also that he had not known that the gentleman had left his sons behind in Verona. He thought to take us with him when he returned to Mantua, so that Father could see his family restored to him. I made protest, and Valentine fell upon his knees with fright, and Bembo did make voice to defend him.”

Paris nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. He surveyed the scene, then turned to Benvolio. “Wait thou here,” he said, “for thou canst restore peace here better than I could. I shall find this Guarin and bring him before Uncle.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

Benvolio reached out to Mercutio, but Mercutio shied away from his touch, turning to sit down heavily on the floor beside Valentine. “I will not let him take us,” he said to no one in particular. “I shall fight him sooner. I am no boy, but a young gentleman of Verona, and I shall not permit my brother to be taken against his will.” His words were firm and determined, but his voice shook. Unable to touch him, Benvolio instead offered his hand to Bembo. The dog sniffed, then licked his hand, acknowledging that Benvolio was indeed a friend.

* * *

Paris returned a little over an hour later to report that the Prince had dismissed Guarin and would have him escorted out of Verona at dawn the next day. “He is under royal orders to speak no word of this journey to your father,” Paris told Mercutio and Valentine. “Your places in this household are secure; your father may not return to Verona to fetch you, and none in his service may fetch you in his place. Uncle made sure of that when he wrote the decree of banishment the night that you first came to us.”

Benvolio, at least, was glad to hear that news, for he had wondered on occasion if Signior Rinuccini might not attempt to exert his paternal rights even from Mantua. Mercutio nodded his thanks to Paris, but remained tense and uneasy. Valentine buried his face in Bembo’s fur, but his trembling eased a little. Paris surveyed the little group, and chewed on his lip as he considered what to do next.

“Come,” he said after a moment. “We cannot allow ourselves to be overcome with fear of a man who can no longer cause harm. It is time to resume our normal tasks. Mercutio, Valentine, your tutor awaits.”

Benvolio and Mercutio helped Valentine to his feet. Mercutio put his arm around his brother, and Bembo stayed at his master’s side. “I shall take him,” Mercutio said to Paris, then turned to Benvolio. “I am glad that thou didst tarry with us,” he said. “Thy presence was a great comfort to me.” Slowly, he led Valentine and Bembo out of the portrait room. Benvolio watched them go, and then returned to his work.

* * *

Though Guarin’s term of employment in Verona was ended even before it had properly begun, the temper of the royal household remained tense throughout the remainder of the day. Valentine kept Bembo at his side, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder at supper to ensure that the dog was still there. Mercutio attended the meal, but could not eat, even though the cook had prepared a mushroom tart that Benvolio knew Mercutio liked. That night, Mercutio curled in a ball at the edge of the bed and would not be touched, even when a nightmare seized him and he woke crying in the glow of the night candle.

Guarin departed at first light, and the tension began to ease, but only slowly. Mercutio remained out of sorts for nearly three days afterwards. However, just past twilight of the third day, he approached Benvolio as Benvolio sat on their balcony with a book, enjoying the cool evening air. He knelt down next to Benvolio and bowed his head.

“Sweet friend,” he said, “I beg pardon of thee.”

“Pardon?” Benvolio smiled. “Thou hast given no offense.”

“I have given thee no fulfillment, either. I know my duty to thee.”

“No duty, _caro_ , but a pleasure,” Benvolio said. “And I would not constrain thee to it. I know that recent days have been difficult for thee.”

“Thou art far more kind than ever I deserve,” Mercutio said. “For that, and for the debt that I owe thee, I would make thee a gift. Wouldst thou have my mouth tonight?”

Benvolio smiled and leaned in to kiss Mercutio. Mercutio responded willingly, making a few small, contented noises that served only to kindle Benvolio’s interest and enthusiasm. He would have lost himself in the kiss, but Mercutio broke the contact to give him a small, mischievous smile.

“Wouldst thou have the other gift of my mouth as well?” he asked.

Benvolio was silent for a moment as he absorbed the offer. He had heard of such acts before, but only in hushed, furtive conversation between naive boys speculating about what services they might purchase from a whore. “Hast thou such skill?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Mercutio nodded. “Ay. I can give thee that pleasure, and I can give it well. Thou wilt be well satisfied, I vouch unto thee. Wilt thou have it?”

Benvolio nodded. “Ay,” he breathed. “If thou wilt give it freely.” Mercutio took his hand, and the two youths rose and retired to the bedchamber.

Once inside, Mercutio opened his arms to Benvolio, and they resumed their kisses for a while, enjoying the growing arousal of their small reunion. This time, when Mercutio pushed away from the kiss, it was so that he could unlace Benvolio’s clothing with swift, nimble fingers.

It did not take long before they were both naked. Mercutio arranged the cushions on the bed so that Benvolio could recline on his back with a full view down the length of his body. With gentle hands, he urged Benvolio’s legs apart and knelt between them. Benvolio forced himself to take a deep breath, though his insides quivered with the anticipation. He was exquisitely conscious of how completely vulnerable he was, spread naked on the bed, with his most sensitive parts exposed and unguarded, and yet a sense of power spread through him as Mercutio bowed low and swept gentle hands across his body.

Mercutio’s hands started at Benvolio’s chest, but soon moved downwards. One caress just below his navel made the thin trail of hairs stand up. Mercutio moved to stroke Benvolio’s hips and thighs, and this time, it was not merely the hairs on Benvolio’s body that began to rise. Mercutio laughed, low in his throat, and slowly arranged his hands around the base of Benvolio’s rapidly hardening prick. As the tip emerged from the foreskin, Mercutio gave it a quick swipe with his tongue. Though he was gentle, the sensation was strong enough that Benvolio gasped and sat up in pleasurable shock.

“That is only the beginning,” Mercutio murmured, and Benvolio lay down again, utterly transfixed at the sight of Mercutio’s lips so near his prick. Mercutio licked his prick all over, from base to tip and back again, then took the base in his hand and bestowed a soft kiss on the tip that expanded until Benvolio found himself engulfed in slick, liquid warmth. With his free hand, Mercutio gently rolled Benvolio’s balls, while his tongue massaged a spot on the underside of Benvolio’s prick that made him see stars.

Benvolio groaned, allowing himself to be borne away on a flood of pleasure. He no longer retained even wit enough to note what, precisely, Mercutio was doing to him, but knew only that he was slowly dissolving in his consort’s mouth. His hands gripped the pillows convulsively, and his hips twitched, seeking more of the warm, wet haven. Finally, he could endure no more, and he came, shuddering and spurting. To his astonishment, Mercutio swallowed every drop.

Benvolio lay back on his nest of pillows, panting and shaking a little as stray flashes of pleasure sparkled through his body. Mercutio sat back on his heels, with an oddly triumphant smile on his face. When Benvolio had resurrected enough of his wits to think again, he reached down and took Mercutio’s hands and pulled him into a grateful embrace. When he kissed Mercutio, he could taste the faint echo of himself on Mercutio’s tongue.

“That was . . . thou art . . . nay, there are no words in the tongues of men that could do justice to what thy tongue hast done,” he said.

Mercutio pressed himself a little closer. “I did tell thee that I was skilled in this art.”

“Ay, thou didst.” As the fog of sensuous pleasure dissipated, Benvolio realized exactly how Mercutio had acquired this particular skill. But the horror of that knowledge was quieted by an odd flush of victory, for Benvolio had now what Giacomo Rinuccini had never had, despite the man’s most strenuous efforts to spoil it. Mercutio lay contentedly in his arms, embracing him as the lover to whom he had willingly and joyously given a gift of pure pleasure.

“It is thine now,” Mercutio murmured. “None but thee shall ever have my mouth in such a fashion. I claim that as my choice.”

It seemed that both of them had been thinking the same thoughts. Benvolio wrapped his arms more firmly about Mercutio and pressed another kiss to his lips, then released him when he began to squirm. Mercutio slid out of the bed and went to don his nightgown while Benvolio roused himself to put the candles out. Then he pulled the covers up and turned a corner down to receive his lover and his friend.


	5. There Golden Sleep Doth Reign

**5\. There Golden Sleep Doth Reign**

* * *

Birds chirped in the garden that was the palace’s inner courtyard, rousing Benvolio from sleep. Romeo had more than once made extravagant mention of “the dawn chorus” in poems he had written to the various maids he had loved, but Benvolio preferred a well-trained group of choirboys singing well past dawn. However, as the chirps and squawks dragged him inexorably into the waking world, a shift and a sigh from the warm body pressed against him reminded him that there were distinctly pleasant aspects to waking up. He rolled over to greet Mercutio.

Mercutio was already awake, though his blue eyes were clouded with drowsiness that he was trying to fight. As soon as he saw that Benvolio had awoken, a look of relief spread across his face.

“Prithee, Benvolio, is the dawn come?” he asked.

“Ay,” Benvolio replied. “The sun doth spread his rays over the eastern hills, and the chaffinches and wrens raise their voices in greeting.”

“I am glad.” Mercutio buried his face in the warm hollow between the pillow and Benvolio’s shoulder. “The morning has been long in coming.”

It was true that it was well past midsummer, and the days had become noticeably shorter. But the ragged undertone in Mercutio’s voice spoke of more personal reasons to welcome the dawn. Benvolio picked up Mercutio’s hand and kissed it. “Didst thou dream?”

Mercutio nodded. “More than once, I reckon, though I recall but two. I woke the second time chilled to the bone, for I found that I had cast the blanket from my body in my dream. I replaced the blanket, but sleep did not return to me.”

“Canst thou recall aught of what thou didst dream?”

“Nay.” Mercutio shivered. “I recall only that I was helpless, alone and yet not alone.”

“I am with thee, _caro_. I shall not abandon thee.” Benvolio wrapped his arms around Mercutio and embraced him. Mercutio gave him a gentle kiss, and they remained twined around each other for a little while, putting off the start of the day.

* * *

Even before he had come to share Mercutio’s bed, Benvolio had known that Mercutio suffered from troubled sleep. He had suspected that the lack of sleep contributed to Mercutio’s days of bad temper, and over the course of the spring and the summer, his suspicions had been well confirmed. Mercutio’s fits were less violent than they had been a year previous, and Benvolio occasionally flattered himself that he had had a hand in that. But Mercutio’s temper was still a fearsome thing, and Benvolio resigned himself to a day of raised voices and cursing.

Towards midmorning, Benvolio emerged from his study to find Valentine sitting on a bench in the corridor reading a book, with Bembo lying at his feet. “How now, Valentine?” Benvolio asked. “Hast thou not lessons at this hour?”

“Ay,” Valentine said with a nod. “I am reading my philosophy here today, for I do not wish to come between my brother and our tutor.”

“Why, is there a quarrel between them?”

Valentine wrinkled his nose. “Not precisely so. But I do not doubt that there will be soon. Our tutor has set Mercutio to read Bernaregio’s _On The Commandments Of Our Lord Given At Sinai_. Because I am to read Pomponazzi, I asked that I might study here, where Bembo could warm my feet.” At the sound of his name, Bembo raised his head and thumped his tail, his tongue lolling out in a doggy smile.

Benvolio squatted down and petted Bembo, then turned back to Valentine. “I presume that thy motives extended beyond the desire for quiet and warm toes.”

Valentine looked guilty. “I did not wish to be present when the conversation turned to the fifth Commandment,” he admitted.

Benvolio took only a moment to think. “ _Honor thy father and thy mother_ ,” he said slowly, then sighed. “I understand. That will be far from an easy lesson. I presume that the tutor does not know why?”

Valentine nodded. “He knows naught but that our father was banished.” After a moment, he added in a small voice, “In truth, I am glad to be absent from that lesson for another reason. It grieves me that I have no memory of my mother, and I fear that I might weep to think upon the honor I might have given her.”

For that, Benvolio had no answer. He gave Valentine’s shoulder a quick squeeze, and then returned to his work.

* * *

Thus forewarned, Benvolio was not surprised to see traces of a scowl on Mercutio’s face when the family assembled for dinner. Paris and Helena greeted him cheerfully, and Benvolio saw that Mercutio made an effort to return their cheer, but his heart was still heavy from his quarrel with his tutor. Just before the Prince arrived, Benvolio clasped Mercutio’s hand and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “But a few hours more, _caro_ , and then thou wilt be free again for the day.” That provoked a little smile, and Benvolio was glad of it.

All bowed their heads as the Prince said grace over the meal. The first course consisted of an array of fruits. Over pears, figs, and dark, sweet grapes, the Prince asked his nephews about the progress of their studies. Valentine responded with a lengthy, excited summary of Pomponazzi, with commentary that set Helena giggling and even elicited admiring laughter from Mercutio.

But any hope that Mercutio’s ill temper had lifted for the day died when the servants bore the main dishes into the dining hall. Prominent among them were plates of fat spiced sausages, small enough to be served whole rather than as slices to accompany other foods. Each diner received a sausage, served upon a nest of spinach. Both the Prince and Helena enjoyed these sausages, and they appeared on the table at regular intervals. Ordinarily, Benvolio would not have cared; he, too, enjoyed these sausages, though they were not his favorite meat. But Mercutio despised them. Coaxing him to eat, never a simple undertaking even on the best of days, had just become that much more difficult.

Mercutio’s smile vanished as he contemplated his sausage. Helena passed him a bowl of sauce. “Perhaps thou wouldst prefer something else to flavor thy meal?” she asked.

Mercutio shook his head. “I thank thee, Lady Helena, but I fear that thy efforts are in vain. Though the flavor may be altered, the nature of the food remains.”

The Prince looked up from his meal with a sharp glance. “What, shall we begin this quarrel anew?” he said. “Mercutio, this is the meal that the cook has prepared for thee. Thou wouldst do best to eat it, for no special dish will be produced shouldst thou refuse.”

Paris signaled that the minstrel in the dining hall should begin to play, and the man struck up a pleasant tune. Mercutio’s face flushed bright red. He made a move toward the sausage, but stopped and then bowed his head in shame. “It will choke me,” he murmured to no one in particular.

“Thou hast thy knife,” Benvolio replied. “Perhaps if thou wouldst cut it into small pieces, it would not seem so daunting.”

Mercutio sliced the sausage. Then he spooned sauce over it and mixed the pieces with the spinach leaves. But still he could not make himself eat.

The Prince sighed. “Mercutio, thou art fully grown. Thou know’st well that a meal is not a plaything. An thou wilt not eat, I shall cause thy meal to be given to the beggars in the street.”

“Let them have it,” Mercutio retorted. “And may they have better use of it than I!”

The Prince signaled to the servants, who removed Mercutio’s dish. “Thou art dismissed from the table,” the Prince said. “Go to the chapel and contemplate thy deeds until thou art summoned. I would have thee attend my court this afternoon.”

Mercutio nodded miserably. He rose from the table, bowed to the assembled company, and stalked out of the dining hall. Benvolio turned back to his own sausage, but discovered that it had lost all of its savor.

* * *

After the dinner was over, Benvolio returned to work. When the Prince’s secretary stepped out of the office for a moment, Benvolio snuck a quick glance at the Prince’s court schedule for the day. Two thieves would be tried, and the third case involved Jacopo Falchi, a glazer who had suspected his wife of adultery and had killed first the infant daughter that he claimed was the proof of that crime and then his wife. His apprentice had snatched up the man’s young son and removed him from the house before any harm could come to him. Both the apprentice and the child would be called upon to give testimony at the trial.

Just as Benvolio finished reading the summary of the case, the secretary returned with Paris in his wake. “Ah, Montague,” he said. “I am glad that you have seen those papers, for I need not tell you of their contents. Count Paris has come to us with a particular request concerning the case of the murderer.”

Paris gave a courteous nod. “Jacopo Falchi will likely be sentenced to hang,” he said. “Following his father’s death, the child is to be sent to dwell with Falchi’s brother Gherardo. I wish the two of you to make discreet inquiries concerning the nature of Gherardo Falchi and his household. That child is all that remains of his house, and I would see that he is well disposed of.” Though his words were businesslike, an undercurrent of emotion ran through Paris’s voice. Benvolio suspected that Paris was remembering his own parents, though he had been older than the Falchi child when he suffered their loss.

The secretary bowed. “Ay,” he said. “We shall undertake that investigation immediately.”

“My thanks.” Paris nodded again and left the office.

The secretary turned to Benvolio. “I guess that thou art not acquainted with this family. Gherardo Falchi dwells in the potters’ street. Go thou and make inquiries among his neighbors concerning his work and conduct, and do not neglect their wives. A sharp-eyed gossip may know many useful things concerning her neighbors’ affairs.”

“Ay.” Benvolio bowed, then left the office for the stables.

* * *

His visit to the potters’ street was not overly long, but enough to convince Benvolio that the Falchi child would be well placed. Gherardo Falchi was not at home, as he was at the palace attending his brother’s trial. However, his neighbor assured Benvolio that Gherardo was sick at heart over Jacopo’s crime and had already built a little bed for his nephew in an alcove in his apartment. The neighbor’s wife added that Gherardo had been seen in the local church speaking earnestly with the father of a young lady he had been courting for several months and guessed that Gherardo had asked for the lady’s hand so that his nephew might soon have a new mother. Another neighbor woman said that Gherardo had asked her for an old hornbook that floated from house to house around the neighborhood so that he and his nephew could learn their letters together.

Benvolio liked the neighbors immediately, and it seemed to him that they thought highly of both Falchi brothers and were eager to restore peace in their street. The child would have a good apprenticeship with his uncle, and there would be plenty of adults to watch over him. Satisfied, Benvolio thanked the neighbors for their time and returned to the palace.

He returned just as Jacopo Falchi’s trial concluded. A great murmur arose from the court chamber, and Mercutio emerged at the far end of the corridor. He knelt in front of the child who waited outside with the apprentice and spoke to him in a low voice. The child stared at Mercutio in stunned horror for a moment, and then burst into tears. The apprentice picked the child up and held him as Mercutio sat back on his heels, his head bowed. Benvolio’s heart sank at the sight, and he hurried to the secretary’s office so that he could make his report and ensure that the child had a new home with the uncle who clearly loved him.

* * *

Supper was somewhat more subdued than was usual. The Prince and Paris engaged in gentle conversation, while Valentine told Helena some of the things he had done during the day. Mercutio looked unhappily at the risotto in front of him, but he did not appear to have much desire to quarrel about it. With only a few glancing prompts from the Prince, he ate, slowly and with no pleasure, finishing just over half of his portion before he pushed the bowl away.

When the Prince dismissed the table, Mercutio went to play cards with Valentine, and Benvolio settled down to read a little. Eventually, he grew weary and retired. Mercutio joined him in the bedchamber just after Benvolio had changed into a nightgown and gotten into bed. Benvolio watched Mercutio change in silence, then turned down the covers in invitation.

After a long and difficult day, he found that he wanted something sweet with which to end it. He leaned over to kiss Mercutio and ran his fingers through Mercutio’s hair. Mercutio allowed the gesture, and even groped under the covers until he rested his hand on Benvolio’s prick. But his movements were lethargic, and Benvolio knew that his heart was not in them. With a sigh, Benvolio removed Mercutio’s hand from his prick.

“I withdraw the request,” he murmured. “Thou art exhausted, and thy night would be better spent in sleep.” He shifted a little bit to give Mercutio some space.

Mercutio reached out and caught his hand. “I would not sleep so soon. Wilt thou lay no leg over mine, or shall I not draw forth the honey of thy loins to still thy longing?”

“Dost thou truly wish that?”

Mercutio’s eyes shone liquid in the glow of the night candle. After a moment, he shook his head. “Nay. I am weary, thou hast the right of it. But I desire sleep less.”

Benvolio kissed Mercutio’s hand. “Dost thou fear thy dreams?”

“Ay.”

“Canst thou tell me what thou desirest, then? Thou wilt not have food, nor sleep, nor love; I know not how to comfort thee.”

Mercutio closed his eyes and gripped Benvolio’s hand more firmly. “I cannot . . . nay, I know not . . . I would sleep with thee tonight.”

“Then sleep, and I shall be at thy side.”

“Nay, thou takest my meaning not.”

Benvolio frowned a little. “What is thy meaning, then? I shall certainly sleep with thee; I have shared thy bed these several months past.”

“Nay, I wish . . .” Mercutio trembled a little. “I wish to make love to thee, sweet friend, for thou art ever kind when thou hast come. That kindness is what I desire tonight.”

Benvolio puzzled over this request briefly, but then he thought of all the times that he had caught Mercutio in his arms after they had finished their sport, and understanding dawned in him. “That kindness . . . dost thou wish me to hold thee tonight?”

Mercutio nodded shyly, and relief crashed through Benvolio. He laughed a little. “Of course I will hold thee, _caro_.”

He gathered Mercutio into his arms, shifting until they lay pressed close against each other, as if they had just awoken or finished a bout of night work, so close that Benvolio could almost feel Mercutio’s heartbeat along with his own. Mercutio smiled for the first time that day, and relaxed into Benvolio’s embrace. Benvolio tucked Mercutio’s head against his shoulder. “Is this what thy heart desires?” he asked.

“Ay. This is the comfort I craved. Perhaps I might sleep thus tonight?”

Benvolio kissed Mercutio’s brow. “Tonight, and any night that thou desirest, _caro_. This sanctuary is thine for the asking; thou needst not earn it with half-willed undertakings.”

A small shudder ran through Mercutio’s body, but when he spoke, his voice had already grown thick with drowsiness. “Thy embrace is warm, it is a coin of gold.”

Mildly puzzled, Benvolio decided to ignore that last remark. “This is my joy and my pleasure as thy consort. Here art thou forever loved, and here art thou safe. Sleep free of trouble and fear, for thy Benvolio is with thee.”

Mercutio’s body was limp, and his breath came deep and slow. Weariness stole over Benvolio’s brain as well, but he fought it for a while, wishing to enjoy this rare proof of Mercutio’s trust in him. But at last, the silence and the warmth of Mercutio’s body pressed against his own proved irresistible. He left one half-waking kiss on Mercutio’s hair and then slid gratefully into the arms of sleep.

* * *

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword: Many thanks to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story. It’s been an adventure for me to write, and I’m glad I had the chance to share it with people. I hope that I have entertained, and I’m grateful to everyone who continues to stick around through this increasingly independent AU.


End file.
